Merriments of the Void
by Saloma-Kiwi
Summary: "Abhorrent Astrid was getting annoyed , and though the alliteration—ooh, the alliteration—was wonderful, and Cicero enjoyed bearing witness to her frustrations, it was strange and wrong for the Listener to be so long and far from Mother when not on , no no—it couldn't continue. And wouldn't, if Cicero had anything to say about it. (Comes before "Of Merit and Poultry")


A black arrow protruding from a fresh, pale throat, crimson blood staining a white dress, a slow collapse on the wedding balcony: a soul for Sithis, sweet chaos in the courtyard.

Job done, and done well.

The cheese had also been quite nice—a well-catered affair. You don't get many well-catered assassinations, Cicero pointed out once she returned from the pandemonium of Solitude. A clean escape; not a soul had seen her.

Not a soul that would remember some nameless Thane, anyway, and the Listener returned to her house in Riften immediately following her report. Only gone a couple days, she said.

But something wasn't quite right: preparations for the next step were now complete, and Valasca nowhere to be found. Cicero expected at _least_ a short visit every couple days; the good sister seemed the only one that actually understood the laughter. Abhorrent Astrid was getting annoyed , and though the alliteration—ooh, the alliteration—was wonderful, and Cicero enjoyed bearing witness to her frustrations, it was strange and _wrong_ for the Listener to be so long and far from Mother when not on business.

No, no no—it couldn't continue.

And wouldn't, if Cicero had anything to say about it.

_Soon, Mother!_

* * *

The Keeper had little enough magick in his blood prior to serving the Night Mother, but his was a sacred position. A little Alteration magick went a long way when moving the Mother's stone sarcophagus alone and when travel became necessary: he could not be away too long, after all, lest he neglect his duties.

Cicero, as every Keeper before him, cold bend space around him to such an extent that time over a travelled distance would be significantly diminished, covering treks that might have taken days on horseback in a matter of hours.

The little manor in Riften was his first stop: it is where the Listener said she would go, after all. Easy, _easy_ to find the Listener's house with idiots blathering about the Dragonborn and the Altmer thane who was probably the very same dragon-slaying hero. So eager to spill locations and legends and rumors with just the right persuasion.

_Rumors, ah, rumors—an informational feast! But beware, O glutton of words: you burst stuffed full as a glutton of meats!_

The lock on the door was easy as cake, silent on oiled hinges. The table was empty, but there was a fire in the hearth—a kitchen. The orange flames cast merry shadows, little, dancing reflections of the Void.

Surely there _was_ dancing in the Void, or Sithis would not allow such merriment in the shadows. Unless the shadows were writhing where touched by the light of flame and not dancing at all—which was really a terrible, terrible prospect—

"What are you doing here?" A snarling Nord behind a battle-axe and shield: useful, simple, time-saving housecarl. So much faster than searching the house for Valasca.

"I'm looking for your thane—Valasca, yes? Don't tell poor Cicero he's come to the wrong house."

She wrinkled her nose at him. "What does a motley Imperial want with my thane? You can direct your questions to me."

"It's not a matter of questions, no, no." The fool paced in a neat arc, putting the table's bench between him and the angry little Nord—well, bugger than poor Cicero, but not a very large woman—not like the tall, terrible, lovely Listener, no. She didn't have it in her—there was no sharp knife's edge in her eyes. How this woman thought she could defend the Listener better than the Listener herself… silly. Very silly. _Foolish_, one could say, but that would be an insult to good Cicero.

The woman had a Look on her face that told the jester he'd lost some time and hadn't gotten to his explanation. Astrid frequently got that look on her face.

Cicero wanted to cut it off.

"If you mean to meet with her, you won't find her here. Direct your questions to me."

The images of carving a hole where that crinkled nose used to be evaporated.

"Not here? Not here? Then where, oh _where_, is my Listener?"

He wasn't sure the housecarl herself knew if she was using the shield to deflect his madness or to continue looking imposing. Silly little Nord thinks she can hide from the Laughter!

"I don't know how anyone could have the patience to listen to you, let alone my thane." Her gauntleted fingers stirred on the hilt of the axe.

Cicero laughed heartily at this—such an easily frightened 'carl, so poorly trained. Or… perhaps not _frightened_. Perhaps _disturbed_. "The servant does not know her mistress at all! Valasca is so very, _very_ patient. A _born hunter_, indeed." Cicero would have to be careful about the Listener's title. If the Nord pieced things together, Cicero would have to kill her. Oo! On second thought… "Please tell poor Cicero where Valasca is or Cicero will not continue asking nicely. Valasca would be very disappointed in my behavior if the housecarl does not cooperate."

Her hair was rather red for a Nord, catching the firelight. "It's not smart to threaten me, _clown_," she spat.

Cicero heaved a belabored sigh. "Why always _clown?_ Clearly Skyrim needs more experience with the performing arts! Cicero is a _jester_, a fool!" He struck an impressive pose, flamboyant with a flick of his wrist and a flourished bow. The housecarl almost—almost!—cracked a smile. Clever, clever Cicero would get his answer yet! "Now, please: where is Valasca?"

Her mouth tightened and the tension in her forehead shifted. She raised her eyebrows. Her gaze got lost somewhere around the fool's cap, an then the ebony blade at his waist. She was deciding. Evaluating. She would tell Cicero; he knew from the way her pulse leapt in her throat: nervous that her thane would be upset by divulging her location. "Cicero will keep your secret" he was going to offer, but she spoke first.

"Temple."

What?

"Cicero doesn't understand."

The housecarl shrugged, hefting the shield with ease as her shoulders rose and fell. "You have your answer, _jester_. She went to temple. Didn't say when or if she'd be back."

"But…" Cicero's mind was whirling—Sithis and the Night Mother and temples and the Black Hand and shadows and blood and— "…Valasca does not need _those _gods."

"Look, I don't care if you don't like the answer. Just—go."

Cicero leered. The look in her pale eyes (mountain flowers—blue—Mother might like a change) told him she was not lying. "Fine," he huffed. "Cicero will start with the Temple of Mara, but if Cicero does not find Valasca, he will be back for the twitchy housecarl, and _she will not like it_." Indeed, the housecarl, the Listener, and the Night Mother would not like the results, but the fool was reasonably certain Valasca would find it funny later, and the Night Mother would forgive him since it wasn't a contract—and it was all for the good of the Brotherhood.

* * *

So, Cicero went to temple.

Well, he _entered _the temple. It wasn't really the same thing. And if the Listener was here, she hadn't "gone to temple" either. Probably meeting a contact or lying in wait for some poor, lucky soul to die at her blade, or—

Or hooded and bowing her head in one of the pews.

Oh, _nonononononononononononono_.

Not _Valasca_, not _the Listener_, no.

Her head snapped up immediately.

Oops. Out loud. Unless the Listener could read Cicero's mind, but—

She hauled him out of the temple without a word by his motley collar, and he did not struggle. Cicero knew the Listener could lift him easily if he gave her reason: an Altmer and much taller, she was, with arms strong from drawing a bow for the last century, her frame steady from training with heavy armor. Not that she needed it any more as an Assassin, mind you. Light armor was much more practical, much more _elegant_. Elegant like Mother—her children could only hope to emulate—

"_What in the Void are you doing here?_" It tore from her throat like a dragon's hiss.

Oh, the Listener was very unhappy.

Cicero hadn't realized he'd been propped up against an alley wall. Near the cemetery, in fact—how thoughtful! "The Listener needs to return home! The next target is planned and the Listener _must_ be there to carry it out. It's been _so long_—won't Valasca come home?"

"It's only been ten days, you fool! And because of your mouth, I must make sure I silence that priest before I go _anywhere_." Her golden eyes caught the sunlight, though they were in shadow, glaring like the flames in her kitchen. Cicero wasn't sure if they made him, the shadow, desire to dance or to flee their bright wrath.

"I'm sorry, Listener—Cicero doesn't understand! To see you _praying_ in a temple to _Mara_ when you've been away from home—"

"I'm making amends. Not worshiping. I haven't worshiped anything in quite some time, I _assure you_." Valasca sighed, drawing the dark hood down over her shoulders. Her wheat-colored hair stirred in the breeze. There was a pleasant, dark smell of nightshade and burial soil. "I snuffed a flame before its time, Cicero." Her hair graced the points of her ears like autumn grasses slipping around half-buried stones. (_Autumnal breezes: m'lady sneezes. Winter comes soon: dead by noon_.) "I have killed many, many people in my life. When I kill for Sithis and the Night Mother, I know each target, each soul has harmed or offended another. But this girl—I killed her on her wedding day—cheerful, full of love, wishing the best for those around her. Silence where that life had been."

The fool was fixed firmly beneath her gaze. The word **silence** opened a terrible, blinding whiteness in his mind, threating the comforting dark, the Laughter. _He_ was the laughter now—he could fill that silence, he could—

"That flame is gone, and for what? All because she was the emperor's cousin." A darkness crept over her brow, eyes softening even as the lines around her lips sharpened. "A person cannot help where they're born."

Cicero understood pain—an Assassin could hardly be effective otherwise—and knew by the subtle colors of her voice, the tension of the muscles around her eyes, that the Listener was pained by some deep thought.

He laughed.

"Oh, but Listener, it's not _gone_, it's just gone _to_ the Void! Good company for Sithis and our brothers and sisters."

"Before its time."

"No, no, Listener—you're looking at it all wrong! Your flame can be a candle in the Void. Much more useful. There than in cold, miserable Skyrim. She's immortal now, doing a great service. And you, Listener, made it possible! The shadows shall dance in her wake: a fine soul, indeed!"

Valasca's brow furrowed, but at least her mouth didn't look so stern and stony.

And then she was laughing.

It started as little bubbles of mirth, but they quickly rose into shoulder-shaking chuckles, and then into free peals of laughter.

Sweet laughter.

"Gods, Cicero. By all the gods I've forsworn and by Sithis and the Night Mother: I came looking for redemption and only found it because you came looking for your Listener." She shook her head. There were merry lines of relief around her eyes now. "Thank you, you brilliant fool."

He grinned—gave her a sweeping bow. "You flatter Cicero."

Valasca shook her head, and folded her arms, long fingers hidden in soft leather, a smile still playing on her lips. "Well—this was a ridiculous waste of time except for one thing."

"And what's that, Listener?"

A feral grin showed her teeth, a lovely white cemetery in their own right. Probably sharp. Yes, that would be fitting. Sharp as her smile, bright with bloodlust. "We have a priest to introduce to Sithis."

Cicero would savor the privilege. Too long, too long since his blade met flesh out of something besides defense!

The Night Mother would forgive poor Cicero; the Listener sanctioned it, after all, and the Listener's word was mothers. And blue mountain flowers. Cicero would not forget fresh flowers for Mother.

Oh, they were a pair of merry, merry shadows, indeed! What could shadows do _but _dance at the prospect of blood?


End file.
